A Grot's Life
by Arley Dial
Summary: The story of one gretchin on the path to greatness.


The Adventures of Slouch

A grot's life:

AD

Brakka walked the old battlefield slowly, scanning the ground at his feet. His armor clanked as he made his way over the blasted terrain, his prodigious weight causing his iron soled boots to sink into the moist ground.

This was a fertile field; many orks had died here, releasing the spores from which new orkoids would grow. Already he had witnessed the "birth" of several full sized orks, the mighty humanoids tearing themselves from the ground, blinking stupidly in the sun, and shambling off toward the distant rumble of artillery.

Seeing a mushroom of the appropriate hue at the bottom of a blast crater, Brakka readied his catch pole and electric prod. He plunged the clamp end of the catch pole into the dirt at the base of the mushroom, squeezing the handle that would close the iron hoop around the neck of his quarry. Feeling a struggle at the end of the pole, the ork pulled the grot from the soil, and stuck the electrified end of the prod it its ear to get the creature's attention.

"Stand to ye slouch!" Brakka snarled. Using the catch pole to indicate that the stunned grot was supposed to stand, the ork dragged the bewildered creature up the side of the blast crater to deposit him amongst the other freshly plucked gretchin who represented the rather pathetic beginnings of a mob.

The gretchin were all of similar height, about one meter tall, with long skinny arms and short bandy legs. Their skin was light green beneath the muck which encrusted them, and beady red eyes shone with crude malevolence from faces dominated by large pointed noses.

"Stay with the others and stick close!" the ork shouted, punctuating the order with jabs from the prod.

Thus was born a grot named Slouch, (he assumed that was his name because that's what the ork had called him when he was pulled from the ground) a gretchin who would go down in the annals of ork history (if there had been such a thing) as a craven lunatic, fighter of many battles, and runner away from many others.

A few hours later, the newly formed mob of gretchin, fifteen strong now, shuffled ahead of the ork who was continually indicating proper speed and deportment with strong invective and the tip of the electrified prod. The terrain was rough, broken by blast craters and littered with bodies both ork and human. Slouch shivered in the brisk air.

Seeing that the ork overseer's attention was elsewhere, he ducked into a small blast crater occupied by a relatively fresh human corpse. Working quickly, he removed the pants from the remains and inspected them. Apparently, whatever trauma had done the human in had also explosively voided the creature's bowels. A quick shake out, and some bashing against a rock returned the pants to an acceptable state of cleanliness and he tried them on. The legs were much too long, but some shrapnel holes served as a starting point from which to tear off the excess. The button at the waist was missing but with only the occasional readjustment Slouch felt they would stay up (mostly).

"Everything looks better when you are wearing shorts." he thought, surveying his surroundings. The peaceful scene at the bottom of a bomb crater occupied by a pantsless corpse struck a chord in the gretchin's innermost heart. Slouch's reverie was broken however, by the familiar feel of a catch pole around his neck and an electrified prod in his ear. Brakka, finding his wayward charge at last, reminded Slouch that now was not the time for peaceful reflection by cursing loudly and zapping him repeatedly with the prod.

Brakka dragged Slouch up the side of the bomb crater with the catch pole, guiding him back to where the mob had stopped. As they approached the mob, Slouch could see the other gretchin gazing with envy at his new shorts, which he kept from falling down with one hand, while trying to keep from being strangled by the catch pole with the other.

"Get goin' yew lot! The humies are dug in tight and we're gonna be at the sharp end when the boss digs 'em out!" Brakka shouted as he released Slouch from the catch pole. Newly informed of their importance to the war effort, a grim determination stole over the mob as they moved off toward the sound of artillery fire in the distance. The gravity of the moment was broken only when Slouch tripped over his new shorts which had fallen down around his ankles.

Brakka's attempts at maintaining discipline (of sorts), were made more difficult as grots began stopping, or drifting away to scavenge clothing and equipment. Pants, vests, helmets, and rags twisted into crude loin cloths contributed to the motley look of the mob. Slouch found a pair of boots which fit quite nicely once the severed feet of their previous owner were removed. Knives, clubs and even the occasional firearm found their way into the hands of the gretchin, bringing a wary look to Brakka's eye, and causing him to make a point of watching his back.

A grot wearing only an ill fitting vest and sandals, (the footwear had been crudely fashioned by tying pieces of a rubber tire to his feet with string) approached Slouch as he peered down the barrel of a rusty pistol he had found at the bottom on an embankment.

"Nice slugga mate!" said the grot.

"Yeah, 's got some mud in it though." Slouch replied, as he scraped the offending material out with a stick. "Dunno if it's got any bullets either."

"'Ere, lemme see." Said the grot, reaching for the gun.

"Oi! Keep yer filthy paws off my slugga!" Slouch shouted, clubbing the grot over the head with the pistol.

"Easy, now mate. I'm not gonna steal it." the grot said, rubbing his bruised ear. "Got one of my own, don't I? Figured out how to check my ammo I did. Got me four good rounds here." He said, retrieving a similar weapon from one of his voluminous vest pockets. "Anyway, my name's Grub. Least I think so, when the big guy pulled me up he sez 'Come on you filthy grub!' so I figure my name's Filthy Grub. You can call me Grub for short though, no sense putting on airs eh?"

"I'm Slouch." He replied, finally relaxing a little. "How do you know you have any rounds?"

"Just push that lever there and that piece comes out. It holds the bullets" said Grub, indicating the lever on his own weapon. Slouch did as directed and the clip emerged along with a gout of mud and water. Shaking the material from the clip he inspected the groove along the side that Grub indicated.

"Looks like four." said Slouch.

"Just like me!" exclaimed Grub. "That makes nine rounds between us." He mused, demonstrating his considerable understanding of mathematics. "With this amount of hardware we'll surely send those humies packing!"

"I wonder if it works though." Said Slouch, somewhat worried about the rust and grit in the action.

"Only one way to find out mate." Grub replied, grinning mischievously. Holding the heavy gun with both hands, Slouch closed his eyes and pulled the trigger just as Brakka raised his head above the embankment. With a deafening boom the gun went off, the recoil knocking Slouch back into Grub and both grots to the ground. Jumping to their feet with an exultant whoop, the exhilarated gretchin ran off to find the mob and show off their guns.

The ork overseer closed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief. The wild shot had been too close for comfort, the slug grazing his helmet, marring the black and white checker pattern which ran down the center. He wouldn't have been the first ork killed by the wild shots of a grot's occasionally functioning weaponry, but that wouldn't make it any less embarrassing.

As the column moved toward the front, Brakka used his catcher and prod less frequently, but the curses and shouts flowed unabated. During the unrelenting diatribe, the grots even gleaned a few pieces of actual information from the torrent of insults. Apparently (as the kilometers upon kilometers of scorched, blasted land they traveled indicated) the orks had been fighting the humans here for many years. The human ground forces had been driven back ever further leaving them huddled in the last human held city on the planet. The city had a spaceport, little good it did them though, as ork spacecraft had established a blockade around the planet. The human soldiers were (thankfully) not giving up without a fight however, as many thousands of them, stranded in the city, attempted to hold off the orks long enough for the human navy to break through the ork blockade and allow reinforcements to arrive.

This suited the orks fine. Orks needed combat like other races needed nutrients. They thrived on the wine of violence, the rarified air of aggression. The more the orks fought, and won, the larger, stronger and more cunning they grew. Even their deaths in battle served to advance the ork cause, their broken bodies releasing spores which became fungus which bore the fruits of the ork race. Orks, squigs, snotlings, and gretchin, all sprouted from the fungus which grew wherever any orkoid had died. And many had died contesting this world.

The sound of artillery fire, which had been growing louder and more distinct as they traveled, reached a crescendo as they topped a rise and discovered a large field artillery piece. The cannon was being manned (or grotted) by gretchin who were clearly struggling to maintain a consistent rate of fire. Two of the grots were attempting to drag a heavy artillery shell up to the breach of the cannon, while a third, who was wearing a cast off human helmet and a loin cloth of indeterminate origin, was shouting instructions and trying to aim the mighty cannon at the same time.

"Yew lot! Go help 'em move those shells!" directed Brakka. "I'm gonna see what they're shooting at."

Approaching the artillery piece, it was clear that this was a human contraption, captured by the orks and turned against its makers. Slouch could see where the two-headed bird symbol was not completely covered by a crude rendering of a horned skull. Using a bit of string he had found, Slouch slung his pistol over his neck and moved to help the struggling Gretchin load a heavy artillery shell into the breach of the cannon.

"Ready Fodda!" shouted the gretchin Slouch had helped with the shell as the breach was closed.

Brakka, who had moved up to the side of the elevated gunnery seat, watched in horror as the helmet wearing grot held his thumb out at arm's length sighting with one eye closed.

"Three ticks left on the big lever!" Fodda shouted.

"Tree ticks aye!" replied the grot on the ground, putting his full weight behind the mechanism in question.

Licking his finger and holding it up in the air, the de facto gunner ordered "Four turns on the wheel for windage!"

"Four turns aye!" responded Slouch, picking a direction at random and spinning the wheel.

"Fire!"

The prodigious recoil of the looted artillery piece knocked all the gretchin to the ground, even as they hooted and cheered as if they had won the war. The ork overseer maintained his feet and eyed the spot where the projectile's smoke trail disappeared over the horizon. Gork and Mork only knew where that shell was headed.

A high pitched whine interrupted the ork's musings, the growing sound registering in its consciousness just as a voice screamed: "Incoming!" causing the gretchin to alternately run, cower, or fire their guns in the air as each individual's fight or flight response dictated.

The ork dove into a blast crater which was already occupied by more than one grot just as the incoming artillery shell scored a direct hit on the cannon they had just fired. Shrapnel, clumps of dirt, gretchin and pieces of gretchin flew every direction.

Apparently their arbitrarily aimed cannon fire had landed close enough to someone to draw return fire. That or they had been the victim of another gretchin artillery unit somewhere in the area. Again, only the ork gods knew for sure.

Brakka, Slouch, Grub and Fodda raised their heads above the lip of the crater to survey the damage. The artillery piece was in ruins and dazed gretchin and staggered about the smoldering wreckage. Retrieving his catch pole and prod from where he had dropped them, Brakka set about reorganizing the mob.

There had been surprisingly few casualties, considering the violence of the explosion, many had minor injuries and partial deafness, but only three grots were lost. With liberal use of the catch pole and prod, Brakka was able to reform the column and resume the march to the front.

"How long have you guys been shooting that big gun?" Inquired Slouch as they traversed the blasted, muddy landscape.

Fodda shrugged "Not long" he said "A big guy plucked a bunch of us yesterday and showed us how to shoot it. He was doing the aiming until we got hit with return fire. The big guy took a piece of shrapnel to the head and a bunch of the other lads got squished in the blast just leaving just the three of us." Looking around quickly Fodda amended, "Just me now I guess."

"Quit yappin' you lot!" Snarled Brakka, who had snuck up behind them. "We got a long ways to go to get to the front so get moving!"

"We're going to the Front?" Exulted Fodda, quickening his pace. "That's great! I've been wondering what we've been shooting at all day."

Fodda found out what he had been (possibly) shooting at sometime later as the weary mob topped a rise to find the last human held city on the planet sprawled across the valley below. Massive structures and soaring towers were separated by wide lanes and groups of smaller buildings. The gretchin could see the human trenches surrounding the city, and being surrounded in turn by a vast horde of orks. Explosions on both sides of the trenches added to the pall of smoke which covered the entire valley.

The Gretchin gazed in slack-jawed amazement at the scale of the assault. Artillery rounds shrieked in and out of the city, vehicles and troops of every description traveled to and fro behind both sides of the lines, the rattle of thousands of machine guns firing at once melded into a sharp roar punctuated by the flat booms of cannon fire.

"Looks like we got here just in time." Mused Slouch, hefting his pistol. "Let's go win this thing." A chorus of assent rose from the assembled grots and Brakka smiled as for once, he did not have to use his prod to get the column marching.

The grot mob's excitement only grew the closer they came to the ork lines. The mass of orkoid strength lent them an energy and a will they had never felt before. As they passed through the lines they saw other mobs of gretchin being driven forward by their ork overseers. The grots had to keep a sharp eye out to avoid tanks, trucks and bikes which roared past them on errands of their own. Mighty deff dreds and killa kans spewed smoke and oil as they tromped toward the front, their insane pilots eager to come to grips with the enemy, and everywhere ork boyz bustled about gathering inito mobs and readying war gear adding a fever pitch to the chaos.

As the mob entered the trenches, the orks stood aside to make way for the gretchin. The orks grinned and chuckled as the grots shuffled past making their way through the labyrinthine trenches toward the ladders which would take them over the top and into no man's land.

"The boss is a smart one sending his best troops in first like this." Said Grub, bursting with pride at being part of the vanguard of the ork advance.

"Yeah, he really knows his stuff, we'll give those humies what for and the big guys can clean up the mess!" Replied Fodda, cackling as they filed past the orks.

"How will we know when it's time to go over?" Slouch asked Brakka as the press of bodies increased the closer they came to the front.

"Oh, you'll know," Brakka chuckled. "When the Waaagh comes you'll know what to do."

Wending their way through the trenches, the grots linked up with other mobs and by the time they had reached the foremost trench there was a sea of gretchin jostling and shoving one another at the bottoms of the ladders. Looking around, Slouch could see no sign of Brakka or any other ork. "They must be coming up after we have softened up the humies." Slouch thought, coming as close as he ever would to understanding the grots role in the coming battle.

A sound the likes of which he had never heard interrupted his musings, a dull roar which seemed to start far away and grow steadily closer. The warboss had unleashed a mighty shout of "Waaagh!" and the effect traveled like a wave along the line as tens of thousands of orks added their voices to the din. As the Waaagh reached them, Slouch was filled with blood lust, the psychic power of the battle cry whipping him into a frenzy and causing him to fire one of his few remaining bullets into the air. The mob surged forward, many eschewing the ladders and climbing over their fellows in a mad effort to come to grips with the foe.

Near the front Slouch, Grub and Fodda scrambled up one of the wide ladders with the help of the mass of gretchin beneath them. Gaining the top, they were met by a withering fire from the humans. Solid slugs and las-blasts buzzed around the gretchin cutting down their fellows all around them. Undeterred, they rushed forward, driven by their Waaagh inspired blood lust. Mortars fell among the rushing mob sending great gouts of earth and torn bodies flying into the air. Hundreds of gretchin were killed in the opening moments of the charge, their sporadic return fire drowned out by the horrible din of the human fusillade. For every grot downed however, it seemed two took its place as a veritable flood of snarling hate-filled gretchin took the field. Seeing the mass of gretchin surging toward them, the human commanders ordered their troops to increase their rate of fire, sending mortars, artillery shells, heavy machine gun and small arms fire at the grot line. This played right into the Warboss' plan as by the time the gretchin advance foundered, power packs and ammo clips would be empty, munitions would be low and gun barrels heated to uselessness.

Slouch and his mates rushed through the chaotic maelstrom of battle, not noticing in their fervor that fewer and fewer grots surrounded them. Through a break in the clouds of smoke they could make out a machine gun nest ahead of them sending glowing tracer fire above their heads. The machine gun ceased fire as the human gun crew switched barrels, their first barrel growing dangerously hot. Verbal communication impossible in the din, Slouch pointed his pistol toward the sand bag barricade and increased his pace, Grub and Fodda at his heels.

Noticing the tell-tale lessening of fire, the orks who had been waiting in the trenches for the gretchin to absorb the brunt of the human's fire surged over the top and rushed the human line. But the human defenders were far from spent. Understanding ork tactics after years of warfare, the humans were prepared for this second, greater charge and unbeknownst to the orks had held in reserve many of their mortars and riflemen. Seeing the larger and more dangerous foes take the field the humans cut loose with all they had, sending massed las and gunfire into the horde of orks slowing the charge considerably.

One of the leading orks, who had made his way across much of no man's land through sheer luck, saw a machine gun nest which looked as if it was being assaulted by grots. Mentally shrugging at the ridiculous tableau, the ork pulled the pin on a stick bomb and heaved it toward the nest just as he was cut down by the mass of las fire coming from the human trenches.

Slouch did not pause at the base of the sand bag barricade but rushed to the top readying his pistol. He reached the summit just as the humans who had replaced the barrel and reloaded their mighty weapon brought the gun to bear. Gripped by panic at the thought that he was about to be cut in half by machine gun fire, Slouch fired his pistol in the general direction of the gun crew. He had no chance to lament the fact that his shot had hit absolutely nothing as the recoil from the weapon threw him backwards off the top of the barricade to land squarely on Grub and Fodda who were just behind him. Stunned, and lying on his back atop a pile of his friends, Slouch looked dreamily up at the smoke filled sky to see a stick bomb, tumbling gracefully end over end soar over head and land in the human machine gun nest.

The blast of the stick bomb shook Slouch from his reverie and the three gretchin disentangled themselves from one another. Looking back toward the ork lines, the grots saw the ork advance faltering as it was badly mauled by heavy fire coming from the human trenches.

Disheartened by the sight, Grub and Fodda looked worriedly at one another, but slouch was galvanized by the sight. Showing a courage and esprit de corps that no grot before or since has ever displayed, Slouch hitched up his sagging shorts, retrieved his fallen pistol and headed back up the barricade.

"Come on lads, let's give 'em what for! Waaagh!" Slouch shouted. His voice sounded thin and reedy compared to the ear shattering roar that the orks had unleashed before the charge, but it did the trick. Grub and Fodda grinned malevolently and headed up the barricade after their de facto leader.

Reaching the top, the gretchin were greeted by a delightful sight. Maybe it was luck or maybe it was the mercy of the ork gods (thought Gork and Mork would never admit to having such a thing) but the ork's posthumous grenade had cut the human crew to pieces but left the gun in tact. Wasting no time, Slouch swiveled the gun around as Grub and Fodda maneuvered an empty ammo can into place for him to stand on. Jumping up on the can, Slouch found that he had a perfect firing lane right down the human trench.

"FIRE!" Slouch shouted exultantly, aiming the heavy weapon at the target rich environment of the human trench. Fodda jumped on the firing pedal which Slouch's feet couldn't reach and the machine gun roared to life. The effect was spectacular as solid lead and blazing phosphorous rounds poured into the human lines. Grub fed a long belt of ammunition into the weapon as Slouch devastated the human trench. Hot brass casings rained down on the gretchin as they whooped and cheered.

The Warboss, who had been just about to sound yet another withdraw, noticed a section of the human trenches which didn't appear to be firing on his troops at all. What were the humies doing? Was it a trap? The Warboss shrugged his steel encased shoulders.

"If it's a trap, they got me." he reasoned aloud as he picked up his radio and ordered all reserve units to the seemingly undefended sector.

"Reload!" shrieked Grub, as another ammo belt grew short.

"They're regrouping!" shouted Slouch, as Grub fitted a new belt into the breach.

"This is the last belt," said Grub,

"Then pour it on 'em!" Urged Fodda, "We didn't come here to stand around and look pretty." He added glancing at Slouch's shorts which had fallen down around his ankles due to the teeth rattling vibration of the machine gun.

"WAAAGH!" The grots gave the shout all they had, as they prepared to sell their lives dear with the last of the looted ammunition.

It was only a few minutes before the last belt of ammunition was running low, and the barrel of the machine gun was smoking furiously. The roar of the machine gun juddered to a halt, its fury spent. The gretchin could see human heads and gun barrels poking up from behind cover, and from within a nearby bunker a few shots buzzed above their heads.

But just as the grim reality of their predicament began to sink in, the sound of screaming rockets cut through the din of the surrounding battle. Massive orks with rockets strapped to their backs plummeted from the sky and landed in and around the human trench. Guns blazing and cleavers chopping the Storm Boyz drove the humans back into cover, preventing them from regrouping. A rhythmic thud of huge footsteps drew the grots attention and their eyes grew misty at the sight of their Warboss charging toward the breach in the line, a hundred of thousand orks at his heels.

Thus did Slouch the Grot, with a little help from his friends, cause a breach in the lines of the human defenders in the last pocket of human resistance on the planet. A breach which would ultimately lead to the annihilation of the human forces and sparking a Waaagh! which would eventually spread throughout the sub sector bringing an unrelenting tide of war to dozens of systems. Slouch and his friends received no accolades from the Warboss or indeed from any ork, for such is not the way of ork society. But the story of Slouch the Mighty (as he was called) was passed down through generations of gretchin, used to lift spirits and while away the hours of unceasing toil and abuse which is the life of a grot.


End file.
